| Operation Compass was well underway
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| Scorching sun
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| Coarse sand
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| A horned desert viper slithers through dust
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| Howling winds
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| Burning eyes
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| World War II under British Command
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| In Egyptian no-man's land
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| A silence of the snakes
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| Before the battle erupts
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| Oil
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| Oil
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| Oil
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| Oil
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| Enemy in sight!
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| Keep low and quiet!
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| Push forth the Mark VI Light!
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| Attack!
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| Bleak tanks rumble, bleached bones crumble
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| Fresh cannon fodder, brutally slaughtered
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| Filthy caked crusts of flesh and blood garnish the banks
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| The onslaught prevails
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| The desert of death
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| As the last man standing falls to his knees
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| Amidst fire and flame
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| Something whispers his name
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| There in the distance, like shadows cast a spell
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| And black oil erupting like a fountain from hell
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| Like a Fata Morgana, a face appears in the geyser of oil
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| Red demonic eyes looking down on him
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| Then this apogee of hell reverses down the well
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| The dead bodies start to twitch in the sand
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| Blue lunar wasteland
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| The fallen soldiers rise to their feet
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| Ghastly winds
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| Death’s stare
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| No man’s war
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| The undead soar
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| Uttering monstrous roars
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| A pack of Death closing
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| He screams and tries to dig himself in
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| Yet cold teeth already gnaw at his skin
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| He won the battle, but not the war |